


a wound that won't heal

by isometric



Series: talking nonsense (stones like white flames) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Codependency, Dissociation, Gen, Gun Trauma, Nonbinary Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Devotion, destructive coping mechanisms, neurodivergent summoner, the comfort of being seen and known by your other half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26975506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isometric/pseuds/isometric
Summary: There are things you realize only after Múspell.(The inherent trauma of Breidablik being a gun, set after Book II.)
Relationships: Alfonse & Summoner | Eclat | Kiran
Series: talking nonsense (stones like white flames) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694983
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	a wound that won't heal

You take your gaze off the gun for exactly one second before your eyes flick back to it again.

You can’t look away. The gun shakes in your face, held at point blank. The white-knuckled grip around it; the nervous tension in the arm holding it up; the scared, vicious grimace of the wielder— those are things you see only peripherally. 

You can’t look away. The gun shakes in your face. You can’t look away.

The gun shakes in your face and you stop breathing. You have your hands up—or maybe they’re down at your side, frozen—or maybe they’re gone, wrists, elbows, your whole body, what does it means to have a body, do you even have one? The gun shakes and you can’t breathe. You can’t look away. The gun shakes in your face.

You wake up.

  


* * *

  


Askr at night is a different thing. The hallways are cold and empty, lit by torchlights from their sconces. The castle has night patrols, but despite the war only just won, the heart of it is peaceful. The guards pace the entrances and exits, staying within areas open to all; the Heroes walk the surroundings outside, idly ready for enemy forces that won’t be coming.

The Order’s castle is a quiet thing at night, strange and liminal despite the stone. You wander the halls, one hand braced against the wall; you can’t feel the arm anymore, not with the warmth all leached out of it. The other hand holds Breidablik, the holy relic, divine weapon, still frosted over; you can’t feel that arm either.

You can’t feel much of anything right now. The fear sits meekly in your ribcage, nausea passively climbing up your throat. Both are so faint you’re barely aware of them—or they’re barely there and you feel faint—

The hallways are so cold. But they’re empty, so at least no one will see the illustrious summoner stumble their way along the carpet, clad only in thin sleepwear. You’d dragged yourself out of bed, with the sinking certainty your chest was empty where once a heart beat. Convinced there was a black hole there, an iron knot, an unspeakable weight—

The water did not help. You drank what you could stomach, washed your face clean of tears. The water did not help, so you wander the halls, letting the cold seep into your body. Do you have a body? Do you even want one? The cold brushes away thoughts and sensations, like a dispassionate surgeon cutting out the rot in you. You feel nothing.

One by one, the torches go out, leaving only the cool blue light of the moon flooding through the windows. You must be a ghost, the way you haunt the halls, your head emptied of all that would make a person.

There was a gun.

There still is. Your grip shakes on it. White-knuckled grip, because you can’t feel your fingers anymore, so you make do with force. There was a gun and you hold one now, you shot someone with it. He died of it—no, he was made vulnerable from it. He did not die of it. Breidablik does not kill.

You stop. Breidablik does not kill.

You stop and remind yourself, _Breidablik does not kill._

“Kiran?”

You turn and find Alfonse behind you, in his sleepwear and wrapped in a thin cloak. He looks as subdued as you feel, though his eyes shine in the light and his brow is creased in concern. To him, you must look demented.

Softly, like he’s talking to a cornered animal, he says, “Kiran, what are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep,” you say numbly. You can’t look away from him. “Woke up convinced it was my turn for watch. I hoped to tire myself out walking around.”

Alfonse’s eyes drop to Breidablik. Your stomach knots itself for one awful moment, but his gaze doesn’t linger. He looks back up to your face, expression wary. Weary?

“And Breidablik?”

You can’t feel your lungs anymore. “Force of habit.”

“But it’s still covered in ice. Aren’t you cold?”

He doesn’t approach. You don’t know how he knows not to. You can’t feel your arms, your head, and now your lungs, but you know he shouldn’t approach you. Somehow, he knows you well enough not to.

There was a gun, and there still is, and yet Alfonse stands before you, concerned but unafraid. He’s never been afraid of you, only afraid for you. He stood at your side while you tore your way through Múspell, had watched what compassion you'd gathered wither away as Askr’s villages burned. You had thought yourself level-headed then, until Fjorm broke through the haze of wrath; but Alfonse was the reason the hatred did not completely burn you up.

Alfonse is always the reason.

It’s ridiculous. There was a gun, but it’s been weeks since. You aimed Breidablik at Surtr and fired from yards away without hesitation. What sleep you managed to catch that night was only broken by dreams of failure. Two days later, you watched him die and felt nothing but cold satisfaction. Surtr died, Múspell signed the armistice, and the Order pulled back to Askr. You returned to the Order’s castle, kept an eye on the peace treaty negotiations you declined to attend, slept without problem.

For weeks, you slept like the dead, your rest only interrupted by your habitual insomnia. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does.

You say, “I hoped the cold would tire me out, too.”

Alfonse’s expression softens so gently it hurts to see, brow furrowed, mouth downturned unhappily. You chance a look to his eyes, and just like that, the spell breaks. Whatever kept hold of you, haunting your steps, disappears within his gaze. The ice leaves your veins.

Alfonse steps close and untucks the ends of his cloak to wrap around you. He’s so warm you can hardly bear it. With him there, with the cloak, the unspoken care—you put your forehead against his shoulder, overwhelmed with it all.

How did you survive a war at his side? How have you survived this long at all?

There was a gun, and now you hold one. You’d looked down the barrel of it, tested the heft of it, wondered what it’d feel like aimed at you. A weapon that is more relic than anything real. You shot Surtr with it, and paid the price. Still paying the price, with the heart in your chest that is no longer there. One day, you think you will do a terrible thing.

Still, the tightness of your throat eases.

You say, “You found me.”

He says, “I’m always looking to you.”

You think of his gaze on the battlefield. Over campfires, strategic meetings. His gaze when you steal him away from the healers, needing to know he’s all right. When he finds you, curled on the library floor because you forgot to eat again.

When he finds you, wandering the halls as you leave personhood behind. His eyes, blue like the sea at night.

You ask him, "How did you know to find me?"

He huffs out a laugh neither of you feel. His arms shake at his side, his heartbeat rabbit-quick.

He says, “I woke up knowing.”

Isn’t this proof? You think of your tattoo, the oath you swore. _I want to believe_ , you’d told him, hoping he could understand. Hoping for a sign, even after the past year, though you wouldn’t have believed in it. After all, back home —the home that is no longer home— nothing was sacred.

But here, in Askr—

You’d joked about fate, knowing there was no such thing; about soulmates, perfect halves, other halves. You’d gone your whole life seeking something, not knowing what, and when you'd given up, found yourself in Askr. You didn't dare admit even to yourself that, maybe, all this time, you'd been seeking him.

But Alfonse— Oh, Alfonse doesn’t have such restrictions. He looks to you with kind, attentive eyes. Even hesitant towards friendships as he is, he’s never shied away from you. What wouldn’t you do for him?

What is a gun in the face of him? What is a gun but a weapon, and what is a weapon but a tool to be used for his sake? You’d had enough of your nerves and your past even before meeting him; now, in this world where he exists, where you are needed, there’s nothing keeping you tied to the life you left behind. Not when this life has him.

So when Alfonse reaches for Breidablik, you let him. His hand closes gently over your wrist, brushing carefully over your tattoo, and when he takes Breidablik from you, despite your reluctance, you let him. Your hand burns with phantom chill, unused to Breidablik’s absence, while Alfonse winds a section of the cloak around his to protect against the shock of cold.

He walks you back to your room, though the dizzying maze of hallways you’ve long since memorized. You don’t sleep that night, though you’ll never tell him. It’s not like it makes any difference. Instead, you watch the stars shift through your window, watch the sky melt to ink blue, till you hear the first members of the day watch take their places. In your head, a singular truth emerges, stark in its gravity.

One day, for his sake, you will do a terrible thing. This, you feel with a certainty you’d dread, were you able feel anything in your state. But that’s nothing compared to the fact it’ll be for him. For Alfonse’s sake, you would do anything.

For his sake, you would do even terrible things.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, FEH timeline is wonky, but I think the two wars (Embla and Múspell) should each take a few months at least, with some downtime in between. A year is long enough for Kiran to get a feel for their role, but short enough that the "genius" aspect can still be played up.
> 
> So, this is actually part 3 of the series, but unfortunately I still haven't gotten around to finishing part 2...... The tattoo is a reference to the scar of part 1 (courtesy of an assassination attempt à la Forging Bonds gone wrong), and in part 2 Kiran covers it up with a self-tat of Askr's emblem as a physical proof of loyalty, not only to the cause (and thus Askr), but specifically to Alfonse.
> 
> And speaking of, Kiran's devotion is meant to be verging on unhinged, and I hope that came across. Alfonse is taken aback by the intensity (poor boy's never had anyone reciprocate his deep feelings), but considering his own social skills/experience and attitude towards friendships, doesn't see anything wrong with that (he does wonder whether he deserves it though). It's not healthy, but they are at constant war and neither know any better. Book 3 will really push their bond to the limit, but they have to get worse before getting better.


End file.
